


Take This Longing from My Mouth

by Sleepless_Girl



Category: DCU
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Girl/pseuds/Sleepless_Girl
Summary: The funny thing about alcohol is that it can have different effects on people.Hal is sure his effects fit both the category of "Emotional Drunk" and "Stupid Drunk".But at the end of the day... aren't they the same thing?





	Take This Longing from My Mouth

“Barry,” he exclaims with glee. 

His arms circle the blond in a friendly hug, he lets out a smile while the other did the same. Both then pull apart and he looks at his best friend. Which at once makes his smile diminish into a worried grin. 

“What’s the matter, Bar?” He says while stepping aside, letting his friend come in. 

With a light push, the door closes behind them, as he leads Barry towards his old couch. One which has been patched up more times than he can count. Taking a seat, he gestures for his friend to sit down next to him. He knows Barry will never sit without permission even though they have known each other for years now. It’s usually something Hal likes to poke fun at his friend for, but Barry doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to laugh. 

Barry gives him a small smile along with a thank you before taking the seat. He sees as the speedster places a black envelope on his lap while his feet shift below him. A few words fly out of Barry's mouth, too quick for him to catch. He keeps waiting, but the blond only seems to pay attention to his lap. 

“So… nice weather we’re having, huh? Care to share what you're holding there,” he asks with a gaze towards the envelope. 

“Ah, yeah…” Barry sighs before looking up at Hal, “sorry about that. Bruce told me to give it to you.”

As the last sentence left his mouth Hal likes to think his heart skipped a beat because of the anticipation.

Taking the envelope from the blond, he lifts the flap. Since this one had no form of adhesive. As he pulled out the paper hiding inside, he realized it was a card. An invitation, if he was being specific. One which held an elegant black font and a fancy boarding embroidered into the white card. 

“It’s an invitation. For his wedding,” he stated. Though he was sure the speedster already knew so. 

“Hal, I’m sorry, man.”

Swallowing through the pebbles that formed in his throat, he looked up at Barry. Letting a smile spread through his features. One which he knew showed too many teeth. 

“It’s all right, Barry. I’m all right.”

He let his eyes gaze at the envelope in hand, wanting to not look at those blue eyes of Barry. They filled with worry and a twinge of accusation. He pretends he doesn’t notice this and reads the invitation. 

“Selina Kyle, eh?”

_________________________________________________

Hal ends up not attending the engagement party. For he gets called up to a mission in outer space, which happens during the same week of the event. A mission which will most likely than not take a good few days. Weeks even. He tells himself it isn't because he’s running away. No. He’s just being a responsible Green Lantern. Anyway, isn’t that what Batman always complains about?

His personal feelings have zero to do with it. Bru—Batman has nothing to do with it. He keeps on telling himself this as he ends up falling in bed with a stranger two days after he has come back. For the stranger curiously carries some features that mirror Bruce’s own. 

It’s just a pure fucking coincidence, he reminds himself. 

And that’s that. 

_________________________________________________

Yeah, he loves the burn of whiskey. 

Setting the glass down, he stares at the empty bottom. A small smirk spreading through his alcohol glazed lips before he raises his head. The hasty motion causing his vision to blur at the corners. Closing his eyes, he lets the music and pointless chatter wash over him like white noise. He can feel the worried glances Barry has been throwing at him throughout the night through his back. For this is, or he believes it is, his fourth shot of whiskey. The temptation to just ask the bartender for the standard neat drink is biting at him like an annoying little chihuahua. That would be a-fucking-mazing. But the small amount of self-consciousness he still has told him not to do so, for he would end up killing his liver. Not to mention the headache he would have to nurture tomorrow with Advil pills. In that case, he’ll just have to stick with shots. 

“Hey, can I have another?” 

Hal must yell the question over the loud music to catch the bartender’s attention. This one looks him up and down—and for that split second his brain thinks the man was checking him out. Before he realizes the exasperated look the male wore. 

“I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ve had enough already. I have to cut you short, buddy.” The man shrugs before turning to a girl. Hal, on the other the hand, let’s out a scoff. 

“Asshole,” he mutters under his breath. 

He doesn’t know why the man wouldn’t just serve him another. It wasn’t like any of the rich snobs present would get drunk off their asses. To him, it appeared as a tragic way to waste alcohol. Grumbling, he closes his eyes once more. Massaging his temples, which throbbed with each beat of the music. Jesus, Ollie has a terrible taste in music. Then again, it was Ollie who booked the place. So, he guesses it's only fair he may choose the music. But still, what that fuck? 

Though he is positive none of the guys care. They're probably too distracted drooling over the strippers that were cat walking around in skimpy “clothing” to notice that Britney Spears was blasting in the background. He smirks at the memory of Ollie suggesting the idea to the others. The mirrored smirk Arthur wore, the worried expression that overcame Barry’s features, and the blush that decorated Clark’s cheeks while his eyes averted from them. Not to mention the confused expression of J’onn towards their weird faces. It had made him cackle and fall to the floor with tears in his eyes. 

Of course, the four of them hadn’t been the only ones invited. Ollie had decided on inviting more guest. Saying something along the lines of, "capturing the grandeur and ambiance of partying." Whatever that meant. So, apart from them, there were other men walking around the bar. Millionaires and billionaires to be exact. 

Sighing, Hal tries to think back to the last time he got wasted. Ha. He knows his buddies back at the Air Force are probably laughing at how much of a light-weight he has become. A sour grin moves across his cheeks.

Carefully, he gets himself up on his feet. Gripping on the counter in the process for good measure. Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes. Letting out a giggle, he feels how wobbly his legs are. Jell-O. They feel like fucking Jell-O. Slowly he lets go of the counter before looking around the place. Everything about this bar screamed luxury. Even the barstool he had been sitting on previously. It hadn’t made his ass feel like it was sitting on a rock. Instead, it had been comfortable. The rather wealthy items made him nervous. He was used to secondhand objects and coupons. Used to cheap alcohol with slightly expired food. Not this alcohol which got the job done faster than any bottle he has ever bought. Or the fresh smell of leather and sandalwood which emitted from the bar. For every bar he had gone to had the smell of sweat and perfume too sweet, and cologne too strong. 

Crinkling his nose, he walks away from the bar. Making his way towards the table where the rest of the guys are sitting at. Barry, Ollie, Clark, J’onn, and Arthur. He gets some appalled glances as he walks, along with a few murmurs. To that, he rolls his eyes. Continuing on forwards. 

But then his eyes catch on a crown of black hair, and even from here he can see the man. Brucie Wayne. Batman. Bruce Wayne. The Dark Knight. The World’s Greatest Detective… wait, isn’t that Sherlock Holmes? Oh well, he doesn’t care. Or is it couldn’t care less?

The sound of a deep and rather silent laugh got his mind back on track. One which he could distinguish apart from all the other and the voice of Britney. Though distinguishing the voice of Bruce from Britney Spears was a rather easy task. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the eyes crinkling at the corners while a drink hid the flash of white teeth. Not to mention the twinkles that likely lived in the blue irises like sea glass hiding between shore waves. Now, if he closed his eyes hard enough… he could imagine him being the cause—

A bump at his shoulder made him tumble backward. Luckily, he maned to catch his balance. 

“Get your hands off me!”

Blinking his eyes, he stared at the man’s face. Whose lips were pressed against each other, eyes hiding below furrowed eyebrows. He looked so funny. Like when Jane gets mad at Howie and flares her cheeks. Kind of like a small kitten. The fact he had a baby-face was not helping. The image gets him to laugh. Which only seems to make the man more furious, for his glare is now obvious. Along with the disgusted snarl that plays on his buddy’s lips. Almost as if the guy had swallowed a lemon.

Hal continues to laugh as more eyes soon direct themselves towards him. But he can’t stop. Soon, he is guided away from the two men. And someone apologizes for his part. The voice rings a bell in his brain, but it’s drowned out by his cackles and the alcohol. He stumbles at the fast pace whoever is guiding him sets. Then, a gush of fresh air makes a coat of goosebumps cover his body. Someone was talking, that much he could tell. Bits of the conversation filtered into his foggy mind.

“—It’s your bachelors night. What kind of friend would I be…?”

“Jordan is clearly intoxicated, Ollie. Plus, you aren’t looking too… sober yourself. Let me handle this. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with a drunk man before.”

He’s sure there’s supposed to be a smirk inserted at the end. Could hear it in the man’s voice. Which… he still couldn’t name. Who was it? Curse his piece of shit brain. 

“Hey! Those were my college days, give me a pass.”

“Are you sure it was only during college? I remember—”

Why did a bar have a fucking a balcony? Isn’t that a safety hazard or something? Someone could try to pull a stupid stunt. But then he remembers what kind of bar he’s in, and who goes to such bars. Even from here he could smell the money reeking from the walls. Right. This is a fancy bar. 

Where the rich drink enough to satisfy. Not to get drunk. He was sure none of them would dare to get drunk. God forbid they tarnish their reputation! A light chuckle left his lips. Hazily, he walks two steps. Finding himself overlooking the streets below while he held onto the rail. Which also seemed to shimmer and shine like every object in this damn place. He closes his eyelids—which he has done so constantly tonight, maybe he should go to bed? The breeze numbs his feverish cheeks. It was not enough though, so he leans into the cool air even more. More. Just a little inch—

A rush of adrenaline seepes into his back like lightning. Eyelids snap open as hands came in front of him. As if they could stop the five hundred and something footfall. His hands might not stop his fall, but the ones around his waist sure as hell did. Grabbing his waist, the hands carefully pull him up before turning him around. He really should have brought his ring. 

“Jordan, what are you doing?”

And now he knows who it is. How could he not? It’s the very man who makes his hackles rise and teeth grind against each other. Whose head he seems to butt with during every meeting they ever have held. Yet, it’s also the very man whose name he shouts into his pillow as his hand comes to a halt, and this one slowly leaves his underwear stained. All this while his chest heaves up and down; skin shining with sweat and lips bit red. 

He also happens to be the man who is the fiancée of Catwoman. 

“Trying to fulfill my dreams of bungee jumping,” he says with a slur of words. 

A huff of air comes from Bruce, “Of course you would do that.”

Hal was positive Bruce was being playful. If the small grin that followed was any sign, but he was drunk. And… heartbroken. 

“What the fuck is that s’pose to mean?”

“ _Hal_ —”

“Don’t ‘Hal’ me. I’m not one of your Robins.”

As the last word slid from his tongue, regret immediately set in. Though his drunken brain was a bit too slow to catch on. Only realizing it once it saw the way Bruce’s jaw set and eyes lost their mirth. 

Fuck. 

“You’re right. You are no Robin of mine. So, I don’t understand while I _still_ need to babysit you.”

Yes. This was better for Hal. Arguing was safe. Common. Expected from both when they were together. It was his net, his parachute. Their faces were already inches apart. As if the Universe itself knew this was the only way him, Hal Jordan, could ever get close to Bruce Wayne. 

“Clearly because you’re _suuuch_ a good parent.”

“Jordan.”

“Ah, ah, ah. I’m the ‘Man Without Fear’, remember? Those tactics don’t work on me, Spooky. I’m not just some crook from Gotham.”

“And yet you continuously act like one. Arrogant and reckless.”

“It’s not arrogance if you can back up the talk.”

“Please, remind me of that when you get beat up by a squirrel again.”

They kept on throwing insults at one another and somehow, it made him tired to the bones. Tired, because this is all he ever does with Bruce. Tired, because this is the same routine over and over and over again. It makes his shoulders sag as his intoxicated mind losses interest rather quickly. He looks up at the man—curse the two inches he has on him—and stared at the moving lips. Which open and close as words leave it. Pink lips which he wonders are as soft as petals, or rough and cracked like the rest of Bruce. He also quite likes the cologne that emits from him. A pleasant mix between musk and spice. Somewhere in his mind the Old Spice commercial plays. “The Man Your Man Could Smell Like”.

“Nor will I—”

Selina Kyle probably knows how Bruce’s lips feel. She probably also sees the rare smile that leaves the man. Or how he looks when he wakes up in the morning. Or when he is moaning in pleasure. Somewhere between those thoughts, his own lips pinch up while head tilts. Before his lips quirk upwards. 

“I never understood,” he speaks up, interrupting whatever tangent Bruce was going on about. “Why we always seem to argue,” he stands on his tiptoes while observing the confused face of the dark-haired man, “when we could do something more interesting.”

His lips then press against those of Bruce Wayne. Who gasps, giving him a chance to slide his tongue in. The burn of whiskey and the strong smell of it immediately fill his sense. Hal thinks he loves it, even more, when the taste of whiskey lies on Bruce’s lips. Addictive. That’s the word. Or something along those lines. He doesn’t really care. All he can think of is _BruceBruceBruce._ And how his tongue slides against the other while arms loosely circle around broad shoulders. Because he wants their bodies to come closer… not to mention he’s tipsy and Bruce’s lips _are_ soft. Bruce’s own hands find themselves on his hips once more. Before they slowly slide up, which makes him let out a soft moan. Then Bruce—

Hal feels as the lavish mouth pulls away from his own. Feels how hands push at his chest. And his eyes open—ones which he hadn’t even realized he had closed in the first place—to find a face of surprise and panic. And no. That face doesn’t look right on Bruce. It doesn’t seem right it’s directed at him. Hal Jordan. 

With that expression in mind, his fantasy comes burning down. And if arguing was his parachute, he has just cut all the strings off. A weird sense of numbness comes into his limbs. Alike that of floating. But his gut feels like it’s been hit by an iron fist, while his chest aches with a dull pain. They’re a good five feet apart now, and his body misses the warmth. He feels like a ghost. Empty. Cold. He also has a weird sense to laugh. For the Batman, the man who puts fear into everyone, has just been spooked by the gay confession one of his friends has just admitted to having on him. It’s comical. It almost makes him laugh. Almost. 

“Jordan, I’m sorry. I don’t…”

A silence wraps around them. Possessively shoving them inside a bubble. One which Hal is waiting to pop. He shouldn’t be frightened. He’s the so proclaimed “Man Without Fear." Guess he didn’t need that neat drink of whiskey to do something stupid. A glimmer catches his eyes. He looks for it again and finds it on Bruce’s fourth finger. It’s an engagement ring. Somewhere, he remembers Bruce—or was it one of the kids?—mentioning it was made of meteorite and titanium. 

He also remembers the meeting he had with Catwoman prior to all of this. Though meeting is too kind of word. For she had stolen from a rich individual—which he later had found out got his money from prostitution rings. And somehow, they always managed to meet on rooftops. For this had not been their only encounter throughout the years. 

Hal remembers the way latex hugged her body as she came upon two feet. Her orange-tinted goggles firmly placed over her green eyes, while red lips gave him a smile. Which, he now realizes, were missing their usual flirtatious nature. Her whip laid on her hip as if asking you to avert your eyes there. She had greeted him with a purr while moving her weight on one hip. He had asked her to give back the ceramic he-goat. Rubies and countless more diamonds he had no interest in knowing were encrusted into it. He remembers also asking her why she was so far away from Gotham. Which, he also now knows, was because said scummy man had also started to do business in Gotham City. In response, she had tilted her head before letting another smile decorate her features. 

_“Do you know what a he-goat means symbolically?”_

He’s sure he had replied with something along the line of, _“Don’t know and don’t care.”_

Which had Catwoman ignoring the comment while scoffing. She then had come closer to him, looking up at him with a somewhat blank expression. 

_“It’s a symbol of lust and fertility,”_ she pushed her goggles back, letting vivid green eyes be seen, _“Its early links were to the Greek Gods Pan, Dionysus, and Zeus. It’s rather… interesting, don’t you think so, Lantern?”_

Christ, he sure missed all the clues now that he thought back on it. 

He had then told her he had no interest in reliving his memory of high school history. This had made her sigh before pouting, she then looked up at him through thick eyelashes. 

_“Shame. And I thought Batman was exaggerating when he says you are a complete idiot.”_

Catwoman then had smirked at him before swiftly doing a back handspring, landing a kick right under his chin. Making his head snap back as he fell on his ass. Before he quickly stood up on shaky legs. Hand rapidly shooting up. Though nothing happened. No green beam shot from his fist. As these thoughts raced across his mind his uniform slowly disintegrated.

_“What the—?”_

_“This is a nice ring, though green really isn’t my shade.”_

He had blinked in surprise, finding the leather and latex covered villainess sitting on the square HVAC unit that stood only a couple of feet away. Inspecting his ring with slightly furrowed eyebrows. What’s up with Gothamites stealing his ring? First Batman, now—wait, did she say she talked to Batman? Hal recalls how a wave of panic then washed through his back. 

_“But that’s okay, I already have a ring of mine.”_

She then had proceeded to throw him his ring, which rolled until it stopped at his boots. Carefully, he had placed it back where it belonged. Feeling as his body became steadier and feet left the rooftop. Along with his uniform starting to form around his body. 

_“I quite like this ring. It has a lovely diamond. Don’t you agree?”_

The costumed woman then tilted her hand down, making him see the intricate design. No doubt expensive, he had thought. Thinks so even more now. 

Hal recollects how he had scoffed while crossing his arms, _“An engagement ring? Somebody was stupid enough to put a ring on it? No offense Catwoman, but you don’t look like the type to… settle down.”_

He now sees that the emotion that passed through her eyes wasn’t anger, but rather pain. How the pressed lips didn’t mean annoyance, but rather sadness and regret. 

_“I guess we’ll have to see,”_ she then got up and turned towards the edge, _“until then… Hal Jordan.”_

Before he could even react, she had disappeared into the darkness. Leaving the statue of the he-goat standing on the vent. The rise of red lips the only last image of her. The image of him cursing himself out passes through his mind. How he had hoped the villainess didn’t tell The Bat she had discovered his identity. 

Guess it was alright after all. 

Ha. 

Shaking his head, he reverts his attention to the present. To Bruce, who meets his eyes. Hal was always one to deal with problems head-on. 

“It’s okay, Bruce. Can you please leave?”

“Hal are—”

“Leave.”

The raven-haired man pressed his lips together while his eyes set. 

“Is that what you—?”

“Just leave me, Spooky. Please.”

He turned towards the city lights, hearing as quiet footsteps left the balcony. 

His vision became blurry. The beams of lights melting into one another, like a strange abstract painting. Or as if he were staring into a glass of amber whiskey. Hal blames the fuzziness of his vision on the alcohol but the tears that roll down his cheeks beg to differ. 

He licks his lips. 

Licking the last reminiscent of Bruce away.

After all, he did say he loves the burn of whiskey.


End file.
